


To be Loved as to Love

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 24th day of the 12th month of the 5th year of the Second Great War, a man comes to see her about a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be Loved as to Love

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen Band of Brothers, you know what episode this is based on. No I am not ok.
> 
> Unbeta'd because Mary is sick and I don't want to bother her and I want this sadness out of my brain.

On the 24th day of the 12th month of the 5th year of the Second Great War, a man comes to see her about a hand.

He is clearly just in from the front. At least a week's worth of scraggly hair covers his chin and jaw, and his uniform is creased and stained from long, continuous use. An old but well-maintained rifle hangs off one shoulder. Beth doesn't take much notice of him when she sees him talking to Sister Peletier from afar—he isn't bleeding or concussed, and as such is of little interest to her.

She is in the process of changing the bandage on a comatose man's head wound when Sister Peletier speaks her name.

“Beth.” Beth looks up and sees the sister, calm and emotionless as usual, the soldier standing behind her. His back is hunched, hands shoved resolutely in his armpits. She can tell from the flush of his cheeks that the warmth of the church—such as it is—has not quite chased away the outside cold. When he catches her looking at his hands he sticks them in his pockets. He is wearing no gloves.

“Yes, Sister?” Beth says, finishing the binding with a pat and bending to wash her hands.

“You assisted with Sergeant Dixon's surgery several days ago, correct?”

Beth frowns, searching her memory. “Was that the one with the broken ribs?”

“He probably tried to feel you up.” The man flushes when the women's attention turns to him. “Merle,” he mutters. “Raggedy looking. Thinks he's a fucking charmer.”

Beth's eyes brighten. “Oh right, Merle. He lost his hand, didn't he?”

Before he can answer, a ruckus rises near the church entrance. A pair of men come in bearing a stretcher, the man being conveyed moaning in agony as blood pumps in steady beats from his chest.

“Sister, should I—“

“I'll take care of it,” she says, already striding off. “You can take your break when you're finished.”

And so Beth stands alone with the soldier and several dozen wounded men.

“C'mon, let's go into the office—won't disturb anyone there.”

Beth leads him to what had once been a priest's private study—now, it's packed floor to ceiling with files and medical supplies. The whole space looks fit to fall down if it's looked at the wrong way.

The man—a private, she notes from his uniform—doesn't seem to notice the precarity. He glares around the room like it's done him an offense. Once inside, Beth settles with her back to the desk; the private edges along the wall until he can face her while remaining turned towards the door.

“How can I help you, Private...” she trails off, squinting at his dirty name tag.

“Dixon,” he grunts, again sticking his hands beneath his arms.

“Private Dixon,” Beth says, nodding her head. He doesn't blink. “So you're the sergeant's...”

“Brother,” he says, shifting his shoulders.

“Really? There isn't much resemblance.”

He just stares at her, glare piercing. Beth's training has involved combatting any number of gazes, and his is no exception. She raises her eyebrows until he grunts and looks away. He scratches his unkempt chin.

“What can I do for you, then?”

Dixon shuffles his feet, looking almost embarrassed; then he says, all in a rush, “He wants his hand back.”

For a moment Beth isn't sure she heard correctly. “He wants...”

“He wants his hand back,” Dixon mutters. His cheeks, although finally acclimated to the temperature, have turned a ruddy red again. “He told me to ask.”

“We can't reattach it or anything, it was torn to shreds—“

“Don't matter,” he grunts. “Put it in a jar or something, he just wants the thing.”

“Well, I... I'm afraid that's not possible, Private. It's probably been burnt by now, and even if it wasn't, you'd never find it.” Beth smiles weakly, like she's about to tell a joke. “Lots'a guys losing limbs out here.”

“That's what I told him,” Dixon says, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn't let off till I asked though.”

“It's good of you to come all this way for him.”

Dixon shrugs. “Superior officer.”

Beth laughs. “Older brother, too.”

A small smile quirks the private's mouth.

Beth realizes she wants to see more of those.

“Do you have to hurry back?” she asks.

The private squints, tilting his head a bit. “Nah, don't think so. Krauts were looking pretty cozy.”

“Why don't you take some dinner with me?” The private blinks, and Beth forges past her own embarrassment. “It's some sort of onion soup today, I think. Based on the nurses' breaths, at least. It's warm, and likely thicker than whatever you're getting on the front.” She pauses, and when he remains motionless, she entreats, “I'd appreciate the company.”

“Don't you got girlfriends for that?”

“Yes,” she says, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “But I'm asking you.”

Dixon looks at his feet, brow furrowed, then shrugs. “A'right, I guess.”

Beth's smile widens. “Excellent. C'mon.”

He's silent as she leads him to the mess hall—little more than a field stove set up in a vestibule, but the smell of the food permeates the stones they walk past, and Beth can feel Dixon perk up a bit at the scent. She hasn't visited the front—no place for women there, Stokey tells her when he comes by for supplies, which she passes over silently with a plastered on smile—but she can't expect they're being fed well. Or clothed, at that.

“Remind me to find gloves for you before you go,” Beth says as they wait on line. Several of the nurses bear trays to take meals back to the wounded soldiers, but most of them are on break, like Beth. She knows some of them, and ignores the curious looks they shoot Private Dixon.

“M'fine,” he says, glaring at the watching nurses from under his fringe of hair. Beth would scold him if she didn't find it so amusing.

“You're gonna take them, Private. I won't treat you for the frostbite you'll get otherwise.”

Dixon raises his eyebrows. “What if I wear 'em and get frostbite anyway?”

Beth smiles at him, giggling a little. “We can sue the manufacturers together, then. Hello, Sasha,” Beth says to the server as they get to the front of the line.

“Hey, Beth,” she responds. “Your lucky day, we got a shipment of parsnips yesterday. Stamped Georgia, too.”

Beth's smile widens. “Didn't have a note from my daddy with them, did they?”

Sasha chuckles. “'Fraid not.” She looks at Dixon, zeroing in on the patches on his shoulder. “You off the front? You know Tyreese Williams?”

Dixon shifts on his feet, glancing at Beth. She nods encouragingly. He turns back to Sasha. “Yeah. He's in my company. Good guy. You his sister?”

“Yeah.”

“He talks about you.”

“He didn't lose that hat I made him, did he?”

Dixon shakes his head. “No, ma'am. Won't take it off.”

Beth smiles at the satisfied look on Sasha's face. “Make sure he doesn't. I told him, Karen won't want him back if he comes home with no ears.”

Beth giggles. “Just telling Private Dixon the same about his hands. These men just don't protect themselves.”

“You got a girl, Dixon?”

Dixon's cheeks go all ruddy again, and Beth is shocked to feel her own follow. She looks carefully away as she waits for him to answer.

“No,” he mumbles. Beth bites her lip.

“Well, keep some meat on your bones, maybe you'll get one.” Beth takes their bowls and bread from Sasha, avoiding her knowing look. She thanks her and turns to lead Private Dixon outside.

“It'll be quieter out here,” she says over her shoulder. She wrinkles her nose as they pass the surgery. “Smell better too. The soup will keep you warm, at least.”

She sees him shrug out of the corner of her eye. “Won't get no complaints from me.”

They walk shoulder to shoulder to the remains of a wall that had once enclosed the church. The army had dismantled it to make more room for arriving soldiers, piling the stones off to the side of the road. Smoothing her skirts beneath her, Beth settles down, scrunching her nose as the cold of the stone works through her woolen layers.

“I swear, I would have spent more time with my cousins in the north if I knew I'd end up in a place like this. Chill goes right through you.”

Dixon shrugs, picking his own stone beside her. “You're out in it long enough, you get used to it.”

“Hmm.” Beth blows on her soup a little, watches the steam cloud the surface. “You from Georgia too?”

“Yeah.”

“Whereabouts?”

Dixon shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “Around. Never lived nowhere too long. Spent a lot of time in the mountains, though, the woods. Ain't as cold as this, but ain't too far off.”

“I'm from Senoia. Ain't too far from Atlanta. You been there?”

“Might'a passed through. Merle'n me, moved around a lot.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents still around?”

Dixon's face darkens, and he looks down at the bowl in his lap; flexes his flushing hand. “No.”

“Ok.” Beth looks at his high cheekbones, the weary circles beneath his eyes. “I lost my mama. Few months before the mess in Spain began.” Beth looks at her lap. “My brother joined up with the Lincoln Brigade. Out of grief, I guess, but he also believed in it, what they were doing. Thought the government was nuts to stay out of it.” She's quiet for a moment, aware of Dixon's eyes on her face. “We got letters from him at Teruel, about how cold it was, how many men were losing fingers and toes. He was funny about it, of course. Talked about finding little piggies swimming with his carrots.” Beth stirs her soup, the steam making her eyes wet. “Stopped getting letters soon after that. The telegram took a while, but we knew.”

“Sorry,” Dixon mutters.

Beth looks up to give him a small smile. “Thanks.” He meets her eyes for a moment, then breaks her gaze, looking down. “The longer we're here the more I think about him, is all. Whenever we get a case of frostbite, or actually have veggies for the soup, I think about Shawn laughing. Eating worms when we were younger, grossing us out. Lord, Mama got mad at him for that.” Dixon glances at her through his fringe of hair. “It's good you got your brother with you. You can protect each other, you know.”

Dixon snorts. “Merle don't need no protecting. Only thing that can kill Merle is Merle. Dumb Krauts just don't know it yet.”

“And what about you?” Beth teases. “The Krauts know how dangerous you are yet?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. He doesn't smile, but something in his eyes is lighter, like he's teasing her back. He hesitates, then picks up the rifle from where he'd laid it beside him. He holds it out to her. She glances at him, then takes it, balancing her soup in her lap as she runs her hands across the well-worn wood. “I've had that thing since I was twelve. Ain't much use in the trenches like this, but I'm a good shot. Better with a bow, but, you know. Ain't practical for the army.”

“You could shoot an apple off my head?”

Dixon smirks; a small smirk, but it's there. “Get whupped for wasting the ammo, but yeah, I reckon.”

“When this thing is over, maybe you could show me sometime.”

Something in Dixon's face darkens. He takes the rifle back, lays it down beside him. “Don't expect to be getting out of this.”

Beth frowns, cupping her soup between her palms. “Why? You got just as much a chance as anyone.”

Dixon shrugs, stirring his soup. “Ain't supposed to have lived this long anyway,” he mutters. He glances up at her, then shakes his head. “Don't matter, anyhow. All gotta go sometime, right?”

“That's what Shawn said, when he was convincing Daddy to let him go to Spain,” Beth says quietly. “All kinds'a things that can kill you out there. You risk your life just shoeing a horse, let alone when the whole world's ready to go to war. All that matters is what you're risking it for, he said. Daddy didn't have much to say to that.” Beth looks at him. “What are you risking your life for, Private Dixon?”

He stares at her a moment, then shrugs again. “Dunno. Merle signed up. Didn't have nothing better to do. Always been good at killing things. What a man's supposed to do, ain't it?”

“Yeah, but why are you doing it for _you_?”

Dixon stares at her, and Beth has to fight off a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. There's something about the way he looks at her that feels like he's peeling back her wool and her marrow and peering into the very heart of her, watching the flows and eddies of the blood in her veins. It isn't an altogether unpleasant feeling.

“Dunno,” he says finally. “Never really thought about it. I guess... want my life to mean something, or something. Never meant nothing to no one before.”

Beth frowns. “That ain't true. You have your brother.”

Dixon snorts. “Merle's got his own shit to worry about. Like I said. Don't matter to no one.”

It isn't half a moment before Beth reaches out. He flinches violently as she approaches, and she pauses, looking in his eyes; when he doesn't make another move, she lays her hand across his. Despite its exposure to the chill, his skin is warm, dry and solid. A man's hand.

“You matter to me,” she says.

He looks at her, unfathomable, thin eyes wider than she imagined they could get. She gets the sense he's trying to figure out if she's mocking him or not, so she doesn't say anything else; just sits still, lets him find what he needs to find. Lets the softness of her own hand seep into the roughness of his.

He grunts, finally, and looks down; she lets him slide his hand out from under hers to take up the spoon, swirl it through the soup a few times before bringing a spoonful to his mouth. He blows on it once before pushing it past his lips. She watches him chew, strong jaw working. She hasn't moved her hand from his knee.

He swallows, and glances at her. She smiles.

“Better than the front?”

He looks at her. He looks at her hand—small, pale against the dirt of his trousers. He looks at her again. Her heart is hammering in her chest and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“Much,” he says.

“Good,” she says.

She starts eating herself, and still doesn't move her hand.

* * *

They finish their soup in silence. Beth is gratified to see that he still has an appetite; too many men come through here with protruding ribs but still unwilling to do more than pick at their food. But Dixon finishes his handsomely, cleaning the dregs with his bread and plopping it whole into his mouth. Beth holds back a smile at that, sensing he'd be self conscious over that kind of teasing.

It takes her a little longer, but she finishes her food as well. And then they just sit there. Beth knows she should go back on duty soon, that her hour's almost up. And she assumes that Dixon is expected back at the front. But it's nice here. Far enough from the church that the screams of wounded men are muted, could be mistaken for birdcalls. Dixon must be right, that the German's are content, for they haven’t had any jeeps bearing wounded troops the whole time they've been sitting. Even when she starts to shiver it's the happiest Beth thinks she's been since the morning that telegram came.

Dixon must notice her shaking, because suddenly he's unbuttoning his jacket. Beth shakes her head swiftly. “No, don't. You need it more than I do.” He opens his mouth to argue, and she levels him with a stare. He shuts it again, and shrugs, redoes the buttons. Beth doesn't try to keep this smile off her lips. “I ought to go back in anyway,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” Dixon replies. He seems as reluctant to move as Beth does, and that sets something warm and glowing off in the pit of her stomach, enough to make her shiver for other reasons all together. She holds it in, though; takes his bowl as he swings his rifle over his shoulder, shakes her head with a smirk when he reaches to take it back. He mock glares at her, then snorts, rolling his eyes as they fall into step.

“How much longer do you think we'll be here?” Beth asks.

“Dunno,” he replies. “Something's gotta give eventually, right? Heard rumors Patton's on his way. Maybe the sonuvabitch'll make it before we're all dead, huh?”

“I hope so,” Beth says softly. They've stopped in front of the church; Beth's road leads in, Dixon's leads out, towards a jeep waiting to take healed men and medics back to the front. Dixon looks down and Beth looks up and she wishes there was something she could do to make him stay.

 _I could stab him with scissors,_ she thinks wryly. _Smack him over the head with a toothbrush. Fill him with morphine till they think he's concussed. Ain't too hard to force a man to bed._

But she can't do that. She knows she can't. There isn't room for selfishness in war.

She's not sure, though, if all that selfishness would be for her. She looks up and Dixon looks down and he seems just as reluctant to move as she does.

“Well,” she says. “I hope your brother isn't too upset that we couldn't find his hand.”

A small smile breaks onto Dixon's face. “He lost it trying to get a Luger off a dead Kraut. Son of a bitch deserved it.”

Beth giggles. “Don't you take any risks like that, now.”

“I won't.”

“Hey Dixon!” calls one of the jeep drivers. “Quit flirting and get over here, I got three runs to make before midnight!”

“Stuff it, Martinez!” Dixon shouts back. He turns back to Beth, rolling his eyes. She giggles again. They're both blushing a little. “Asshole,” Dixon mutters.

“Just following that military discipline, of course,” Beth says.

“Hmm.” Dixon sticks his hands in his pockets, again looking at her through his bangs. It's a sign of how desperate their situation is, that his CO hasn't made him cut them. She's glad of it, anyway. She likes the way he looks through them. She likes the way he looks through them at her. Her heart aches, suddenly, at how little time she's known him; that by the time she could work up the courage to raise her hand, sweep the hair away from his face and press his cheek with it, one or both of them will probably be dead. No time. No time at all.

“Well,” Beth says. “You be careful, now.”

“You too,” Dixon grunts. He stares at her—a moment, two—then turns and strides off.

Beth stands, clutching their bowls to her chest, watching him—the rifle bouncing against his back, his long legs carrying him away from her. He must say something to Martinez, for she sees the man roll his eyes and flip him off. Then Dixon is climbing into the passenger side of the jeep, shutting the door, and sitting as Martinez guns the engine.

He's just hit the accelerator when Beth remembers.

“Wait,” she whispers; then louder, “Wait!” Dropping the bowls and trusting their tin to keep them from shattering, she darts towards the piles of clothing sitting by the church walls, all that can be salvaged from dead soldiers. She rifles through it quickly, searching, searching... and there, exactly what she needs: a pair of men's gloves, sturdy and thick.

Pulling them from the pile she spins around and runs. The jeep is already almost to the gates of the town, and her skirts pull uncomfortably on her shins; huffing in impatience, she grabs them, hiking them up to her thighs and dashing through the snow.

“Wait, Martinez, wait!” she yells.

For one horrifying moment she thinks that he hasn't heard; that he'll drive through the gate and Private Dixon will never get his gloves, and something within her, some superstition, some premonition, whatever it is, tells her that if he does not get these gloves she will only see him again with glassy, clouded eyes.

She is just about ready to give up when her heart leaps: The jeep is slowing. Breathing out in relief, Beth puts on another burst of speed. Dixon has turned around in the car, is halfway out before Beth shakes her head. He closes the door and waits for her to jog up, panting a little.

“Beth?” he asks.

“Here,” she says, hitting the car a little harder than she expects to. She holds out the gloves, speaking as best she can through straining lungs. “For you,” she says.

He stares at her face, then down at the gloves, taking them with hands that move as if through molasses. And she sees the look in his eyes—and she sees how young he is. Older than her, far older than her, but _young_ —not in years, maybe, or how he sees the world, the way it's hurt him; but maybe in the way he wants to see it. Maybe in the way it sees him. He's _young_.

And in the end, it doesn't take any time at all.

Bracing her hands on the door she leans forward. She ignores his twitch, ignores all the eyes on the crazy nurse who'd chased down a car, to press a kiss to his dirty cheek.

He smells like blood and gunpowder and frozen sweat and something deep, something known, something she desperately wants to cling to—but she can't. She knows it. So she kisses him, lingering, feeling every prickle of his beard on her lips, the building heat of him on her cheek. She kisses him to remember him.

“You be careful,” she says again. She pulls back, speaking before she can analyze the look in his eyes. “Don't let me see you here again, Private Dixon.”

“Daryl.”

She pauses, feels for the first time her pounding heart. “Huh?”

“Daryl,” he says. He swallows. He is still very close. “My name's Daryl.”

“Daryl,” she says; rolling it in her mouth, sampling the taste, breathing him in like air. “Daryl,” she says again. “I'm Beth.”

And he smiles. Not a quirk, not a smirk—a smile, beyond a grin—something that lights up his face like sun on snow.

“I know.”

She nods, and he nods. Martinez drives away.

Beth stands there for a long time, in the middle of the Bastogne road, snow melting through her stockings and chilling her ankles. It's uncomfortable, just on the wrong side of pain, but she lets herself feel it, like she's let herself feel very little. Lets herself feel the cold of the falling sun, the gradual turn of attention as the people around her go back to their business. Feel the blood pumping through her veins, the breath in her lungs—all that in hours, in moments, might fail him. Lets herself feel the ache of that. The ache of it, of all there is to lose.

The sun is nearly down when she turns back to the church, and she looks up at the sky and sees it's snowing. And moments later she feels it—little pinpricks of a colder cold on her cheeks, tufts that tangle and melt into her eyelashes. Lights are burning from inside the church, fires in the hearth. Candles in every window.

It is the 24 th  day of the 12  th  month of the 5  th  year of the Second Great War. Beth Greene is 18 years old; her mother is dead, her brother is dead, her father and sister wait in dread across the world. It is Christmas Eve, 1944, in the freezing forests of Belgium, and a man came to see her about a hand.

Fresh booms begin to sound from beyond the gates of the town, and even from outside Beth can feel those within gather their breaths, prepare for the storm to start.

Beth thinks of the man she sent towards those booms. Once Beth might have been terrified. Once she might have cried.

But not now. Now she pauses once more at the doors of the church; turns to look out into the night. Behind her, the screams of the dying. Before her, the Germans; before her, the front; before her, a man from Georgia with his hands now wrapped in what she could give him of hers; a man who might sleep a little less cold.

“Merry Christmas, Daryl Dixon,” she murmurs.

She turns back to the church. She rucks up her sleeves. She squares her step.

He's gone to do his job. Now it's time to do hers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> What are you talking about the episode has a sad ending, there is no sad ending, nothing bad happens, both of them survive and find each other and start a nitration works in Georgia and have many Dixon-Greene babies and are never sad again WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT


End file.
